L'appel humain
by Tijuana Pirate
Summary: On a warm night in October, Vincent and Reeve discuss the meaning of life... something they clearly don't understand at all. Mildly philosophical. Giftfic for Sabriel41.


**Author's notes**: I wrote this story for the lovely Sabriel41 as part of a Christmas fic exchange. She mentioned that Vincent probably would've been a fan of L'Étranger and I promised to write her that story. I confess that I've never read the novel in English so my translations may be very slightly off. I apologize. I also didn't specify but Vin is in his red OGC getup in this. I like the scene better like that.

This one's for you Sabe. Everyone else, enjoy.

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L'appel humain

It was one of those rare October nights that came seemingly out of nowhere in the middle of a long cold snap, just cold enough to make fifteen degrees feel like a haven. On a night like this one, where fifteen degrees was balmy on the outskirts of Edge and there were just enough stars in the sky to give the evening a peaceful feeling, conversations between these two gentlemen tended to turn philosophical, which was of course to say that though the event was rare, it was hardly uneventful.

Reeve stretched his legs – one always permanently stiff from an injury a long time ago, back when he hadn't been a Shinra manager- and looked up at the flecks of light in the sky. The smoke from his cigarette trailed upwards and a hot coffee sat on the glass table in front of him. Across from him, Vincent was sitting and also uncharacteristically smoking a cigarette and sipping a coffee. He took his black – naturally – and Reeve chose to sip what they called in Costa a café-con-laité. Cid stood on the edge of the balcony, clearly less at ease than his two friends. His ash tray already had five cigarettes in it, two still half-smoking. In essence, Cid was annoyed and felt half-ignored, which wasn't unreasonable since his friends where talking things that he tended to classify as 'philosophical pansy-ass shit'. Naturally, he _was_ being ignored by the other two men.

Reeve smiled contentedly and took a long drag on his cigarette, still looking up.

"… Did you ever study Albert Camus, Vincent?" he asked. They were almost the same generation, those two. Intellectually at least. It was a fair question. Vincent leaned back in his chair and the corner of his mouth stretched.

"… _il me restait à souhaiter qu'il y ait beaucoup de spectateurs le jour de mon exécution et qu'ils m'accueillent avec des cris de haine_," he said, the foreign language rolling smoothly off his tongue. Reeve's smile deepened.

"… All that was left for me was to hope that there would be many spectators the day of my execution and that they would greet me with cries of hatred," he said. He sat back up in his chair and placed both arms on his table. "I never liked L'Étranger. A little morbid for my tastes."

"… It loses much in translation," Vincent said, taking another long drag on his cigarette. He thought for a moment. "_Je révolte, alors je suis_."

"I revolt, therefore I am," Reeve translated again. He thought for a moment. "… the idea that life in its essence is absurd… do you believe it?"

The corner of Vincent's lip stretched and his long legs unfolded beneath the table. He looked up at the stars as well, flicking a bit of ash from his cigarette before taking another long drag. He was silent for a long while, thoughtful, but Reeve had long grown used to these lapses. Eventually, he said quietly:

"… They used to talk of an _appel humain_, a cry from humanity that tried to make sense of existence. The day-to-day conundrum of waking up, going to work, coming home, sleeping, and repeating it all over again, this endless kind of cycle that lead nowhere. You needed to find objects, treasures, to make sense of it all. Religion was a focal point for some, love for others; fate. There needed to be a sense of purpose to everything. Camus – rejected that. He revolted against _l'appel humain_ and tried to paint a picture of life without purpose."

Vincent gestured broadly, looking at the man across from him.

"What does it matter that, right now, we are sitting here, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and speaking philosophically? In the end, it makes no difference whether we do so or not. The only satisfaction that we have from this is the small carnal pleasure of the nicotine and the caffeine, along with the more minute chemical stimuli that pleasant conversation can cause in regions of the cerebellum. There is certainly no _point_ to it, other than that. Life in its nature is absurd and to try and prescribe anything else to it is naive in the most fundamental manner. It's only by rejecting the base cry that humanity possesses to make sense of life and by embracing its pure futility can man truly exist."

There was a deep snort from the corner and both men turn to look at their friend whom they'd been ignoring. Cid ground his cigarette into his ash tray angrily.

"Y'ar full of shit plague-pants," Cid accused without turning around. Vincent arched a dark eyebrow at him and Cid fished for a new stick vigorously. Having found one, he lit it in a sharp motion, shoving the cigarette into his mouth. He talked around it.

"Y'ar saying that life's pointless and I say y'ar full of it," he repeated. "If ya really believed that, ya would've said fuck-y'all see-ya-never back at the Crater."

Cid turned the face the two men and gestured angrily at the older man with his cigarette.

"If life wasn't fucking worth livin' or savin' ya never would've dragged your corpse-ass back to my fucking deck but ya did. So don't go moaning about how life is fucking absurd or ain't fucking worth living cuz ya live it and ya continue to day after day. If life wasn't fucking worth living, if it didn't make sense, ya'd _have_ ta kill yourself and I don't see either of you two fucks putting a gun in your mouths. What were we fighting for if it wasn't all the things that you say don't matter – cigs and broads and flyin' and daybreak and – aw shit, you know what I mean."

Cid suddenly cut himself off, embarrassed by his own rant. He turned back to the balcony's railing and put his cigarette back in his mouth, working it over ferociously between his teeth. Reeve looked over at Vincent who seemed to be considering something. It was a long while before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was soft and gravely.

"… _que m'importaient son Dieu, les vies qu'on choisit, les destins qu'on élit, puisqu'un seul destin devait m'élire moi-même et avec moi des milliards de privilégiés qui, comme lui, se disaient mes frères. Comprenait-il donc ? Tout le monde était privilégié… il n'y avait que des privilégiés_."

Trailing off, Vincent stood up and snuffed his cigarette, nodding once at Reeve before walking slowly back into the apartment. Reeve grinned when the sliding door of his apartment slid shut behind the older man. Cid naturally broke the silence.

"Well, what the fuck did that mean?" he said, turning to look at Reeve. The man laughed tonelessly and snuffed his cigarette as well.

"That meant – you're right."

Reeve stood up and winced as his leg cramped. He was getting old. He smiled and gestured at Cid.

"C'mon, it's getting cold out here."

Cid eyed Reeve suspiciously before nodding accent. Reeve gestured to let Cid walk in front that blonde man did so, muttering faintly to himself.

"You're both fucking weird."

Reeve just smiled.

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End file.
